


The Sins We Wear

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Romance, possible eventual sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are in love. Tremendously in love. And that love deserves to be expressed, be explored, in all ways possible that they can conceive. The biggest fear in both their minds is, if they do this, will Aziraphale fall?...But that's not the fear that stops Crowley's hand when the time comes.





	1. Chapter 1

Electricity gathers inside Aziraphale’s shop, building with every shot of Devil’s Cut he pours down his throat. It heralds a storm a long time coming, with warning signs and red flags crackling through his head. But every time he comes across one, he fills his shot glass and passes it by. As soon as his glass is empty again, Crowley shakes the bottle his way.

“Top you up, sergeant?”

“I--I don’t know.” Aziraphale considers his glass for less than a second before holding it out for a refill. “I’m afraid if I have too much more, I might forget myself entirely.”

“To be honest, that’s what I’m hoping for,” Crowley admits, throwing back his own shot, then abandoning his glass and the bottle to sit beside his friend.

“Oh?” Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Why’s that?”

“Because, you might say, I’m curious about a few things. There’re some questions I’d like to ask, but I think you might be too skittish sober to give me a proper answer.”

“And what questions are those?” Aziraphale sets his undrunk whiskey down on a nearby table. He’s maybe had a drink too many, but he feels it’s just enough. He needed to be a little looser than he was when they started to brave this storm. He needed to give himself permission to stop thinking too much.

But now he finds himself sobering up, the bottle on the table slowly filling as he pushes the alcohol out of his system.

Crowley does, too, privately coming to a similar conclusion.

If he does what’s he’s been planning drunk, or Aziraphale acquiesces drunk, it’s not going to mean a thing. In fact, it’ll turn wrong. _Evil_. Which might earn him a few points downstairs, but would ruin his relationship up here.

“I was just wondering - what would you say if I did this?” Crowley rolls onto his hip and leans in, kissing Aziraphale on the cheek. It’s quick and light, barely more than a glorified peck, but Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath all the same.

“Oh! Well, I think I would say … thank you?” Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut, his self-esteem speared by his own naiveté. But Crowley adores it. He adores Aziraphale’s innocence in pretty much everything from his themed crossword puzzles to the apps on his cell phone. He has no idea what most of them do, but he refuses to remove them in case they become useful to him one of these days.

To the lover _and_ the demon, consummating this relationship has the potential to be decadent.

“And what if I did this?”

Crowley reaches across his body and puts a hand to the angel’s other cheek, kisses his neck from the thrumming pulse below his jaw to the collar of his dress shirt.

“Oh …” Aziraphale’s hands clamp down on the cushion beneath him, grabbing the material and anchoring himself to it. “Oh, I … um …” Crowley loosens Aziraphale’s tie and unbuttons the first button of his shirt to reveal a section of skin usually hidden - the junction of his neck and his shoulder. He undoes more buttons until he can loosen the collar enough to fit his mouth over that skin. Aziraphale shivers when he does, shivers when he swipes his tongue over it and bites down gently.

The slip of a moan that escapes his lips smells like whiskey and rings in Crowley’s ears like the bells of heaven.

Crowley climbs over the angel’s legs and settles himself in Aziraphale’s lap, kneeling on either side so as not to make Aziraphale uncomfortable.

“Is this all right with you, angel?” he whispers, toying with the next button on Aziraphale’s shirt but not moving an inch to undo it. “Are you okay if I keep going? Or do you want me to stop?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s eyes find Crowley’s lips, a touch too flustered to meet his gaze. Those yellow serpent eyes staring down at him are full of desire, lust, and _sin_. And as much as he loves Crowley, as much as he _wants_ him, he’s never had those temptations aimed at him in such full force before. It makes him feel weak and nervous, strong and powerful, all at the same time. But he can’t fear Crowley _and_ be with him. He’s already resolved inside himself that doing this, that making love even to a demon, won’t cause him to fall, as long as it truly is making _love_. Angels are love. As a Principality, Aziraphale’s whole existence hinges on him inspiring love in others. If he is love, if he inspires love, he should be allowed to partake in love.

It made perfect sense to him.

It took longer to convince Crowley than it did for Aziraphale to convince himself.

So, he needs to be a willing participant in this or not at all.

After a beat, his eyes travel up Crowley’s face. He holds his breath, finding it difficult to respond with his body so close, his smell all around him, his heat seeping through his clothes and his skin until he feels like he might burst into flames from the inside. The longer the silence drags, Crowley’s cocky grin starts to fade. He backs slowly away, looking more than hurt. Looking disgusted with himself, and that forces Aziraphale to react. He reaches out and grabs for any part of his demon, his hand latching on to his hip and clutching tight.

“No! Please, d-don’t go. D-don’t stop. I … I … don’t know what to do right now. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never …”

Crowley’s grin returns, fonder and a bit more bashful than before. “You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers, moving back into place on his angel’s lap, lips brushing Aziraphale’s neck. “Just sit back and enjoy how I make you feel. All right?”

Aziraphale nods, his voice going conspicuously missing when Crowley’s lips touch his skin.

Crowley feels his angel swallow hard, attempting to shove down every fear in his head and banish it to his feet.

It’s _exciting_.

Crowley’s entire existence on this planet has been spent coercing, manipulating, tempting, _corrupting_. But Aziraphale, technically his adversary, could not be swayed from his course. When they met, bedding this angel was the last thing on his mind but, as a demon, it would have been a triumph. 6000 years they spent playing off one another, conspiring with each other.

_Fraternizing_.

But look at them now. Thwart one Armageddon, and here he is, serpent of Paradise, corrupting the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, not because he’s been commanded to.

But because they’re in love.

Crowley’s hands begin to travel, foregoing the light massage of his angel’s cheeks, gently stroking down his neck, nails running over his chest to his soft belly, further down to the waist of his slacks. He sighs softly against Aziraphale’s skin and behind the angel’s eyes aimed upward, the stars align.

“Oh, G--god--“ he moans.

“Shhh. God’s not here, angel. But I am. Say my name, if you don’t mind.”

“B--but … God’s everywhere.”

“Not if you don’t want me to leave off and take a cold shower she’s not.”

Aziraphale gulps. “Qu--quite right. Not here. Not at all. Who is this God person of whom you speak of …?”

Crowley returns to the light stroking of Aziraphale’s sensitive flesh, teasing at the insinuation that he’s about to undo the button and fly to his slacks, but then returning to other areas already exposed. He’d said Aziraphale needn’t do anything, but he feels like a heel sitting there, breathing heavily like a bass stranded on the shore. If this is the start of taking their relationship in a new direction, then he wants to participate, not simply let it wash over him like the rising tide. With trembling hands, he reaches for the buttons to Crowley’s shirt. He opens them slowly, careful not to pull the fabric. His fingertips brush Crowley’s smooth skin, and his kisses stutter.

“Oh, angel,” he whispers. “Yes. Whatever you’re doing, the answer is _yes_ …”

Those words make Aziraphale bolder, more confident. He undoes more buttons, pushing fabric aside. Crowley responds by cradling the back of his head and kissing his neck harder, sucking and biting in equal measure until Aziraphale feels his demon’s lips everywhere at once, straight down to his toes. Aziraphale rolls his head to the side to give Crowley room to work with, rescuing his tie and stowing it off to the side so it doesn’t get too wrinkled. The change in position gives Aziraphale a much better view of Crowley’s exposed neck and part of his chest.

And in that view, the angel spots something he’s never seen before.

He’s never rightly seen Crowley shirtless before. All he wears are long sleeves and long trousers – in black, of course. Aziraphale never questioned it. He thought it was a demon thing and besides, Aziraphale doesn’t fancy short sleeves or short trousers himself, so they have that in common. Crowley does have a stable of shirts that reveal a V-shaped portion of his chest to about mid-sternum. But on this area of skin, his collarbone closer to his shoulder that’s never exposed, there’s a dark mark – longer than the snake on his face. A mark that looks like a handful of words scrawled in black pen.

The angel squints to get a closer look.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“What’s this on your collarbone?”

“Hmmm?”

“I thought it was your mark, but it looks like a _name_.”

Crowley’s lips, his hands, his body goes rigid, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice.

“Whose name is this? Heather … Manson-Pride?”

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Crowley straightens, grabs the opened halves of his shirt and holds them closed, on the beveled edge of hyperventilating. He climbs backwards off Aziraphale’s lap, fumbling to close the buttons, nearly yanking them off in the process.

He’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten!? How the fuck could _this_ have slipped his fucking mind!?

For one, because he’d stopped looking at his body in the mirror about a thousand or so years ago. There were so many of them – _too_ many of them. They had become too hard to ignore. And he wanted to ignore them. Now that he had his angel, he wanted to forget they were there.

He wanted to turn back time, start again from the beginning.

Wash the stains away.

A ridiculous, impossible, stupid, and unattainable goal, he knows, because he’s a demon. He did what demons do. Turning back time wouldn’t change that.

There’s no fixing this.

“Crowley? Are you all right? What … what happened?” Aziraphale sits up and does the same, pulling his shirt ends together and hugging himself tight to keep them closed. The expression on his face is one of concern … and embarrassment. An embarrassment so deep, it’s painted brick red splotches on the pale skin of his angel’s cheeks. Crowley didn’t want that for Aziraphale. Not now, of all times. Not when he’s risking so damned much to be with him. But Crowley needs to take a step back and decide how he’s going to deal with this.

“I can’t … I can’t tell you yet.” Crowley inches towards the door. In the depths of Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes, he sees his angel’s heart shatter. “I will! I swear I will! But I can’t ... I can’t do this right now.”

“What’s wrong? Is it … is it me?”

Guilt floods Crowley’s heart at the look of his angel, sitting primly on the sofa, back straight, confused and hurt by a rejection Crowley had no right to lob at him, not when _he_ had started this.

“No, it’s not you, love,” Crowley says softly. “I just … I need to go. But only for now. I need a little time before I … before we …”

Aziraphale puts up a hand to stop Crowley’s rambling. “It’s okay. I understand.”

But he doesn’t understand. He’s _lying_. The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate is lying. He’s trying to understand why the demon he’s finally given his heart to after 6000 years is rushing out the door like a married man making the biggest mistake of his life. He’s hurt and humiliated, and he’s doing his best to save face.

Worse – he’s doing his best to make Crowley feel better about leaving him in the dark.

Crowley reaches the door and opens it, taking one last look at his angel. He realizes as he backs out the door that he might be throwing away an opportunity he won’t be able to earn again for another 6000 years, but he doesn’t know what the right thing is.

Occupational hazard maybe.

Or maybe he’s just a tremendous knob.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” he says, and shuts the door behind him.

Out on the empty sidewalk, he races to his car parked across the street. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to see if Aziraphale is watching. He can’t bring himself to. He climbs inside and turns the engine over, but he doesn’t put the car into gear. He lets it idle, the radio picking up where it left off over an hour before when Crowley first got here, so sure of what he’d wanted he didn’t switch the radio off before he turned off the car. He puts his hands on the steering wheel, listening to the song playing, paying attention to the words for the first time since he’d glossed over them on his way here.

_You will remember_  
When this is blown over  
And everything's all by the way  
When I grow older  
I will be there at your side  
To remind you how I still love you  
I still love you

He reaches out and changes the channel, searching for something a little more upbeat to start him on his way, but he ends up with more of the same.

_There's no chance for us._  
It's all decided for us.  
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us.  
Who wants to live forever?  
Who wants to live forever?  
Who dares to love forever  
When love must die?

If his Bentley has a mind of its own, which he’s often suspected it does, its sense of theatrical timing is truly unmatched.

“Shit, shit, motherfucking, shit, shit, _shit_!”

He slaps himself on the forehead, hands grabbing chunks of hair and pulling because he needs pain to focus, needs it to remind himself that he’s not the only one involved here. He’s not the only one that matters. In fact, this bullshit he’s pressed about? It couldn’t matter less.

Him fornicating with an angel does come with risks, but it also has the potential to improve his stock ten-fold. It wouldn’t matter _why_ he’d corrupted an angel. He’d have corrupted an angel! For the folks downstairs, that would be considered a _huge_ win.

If Aziraphale’s notions about love are wrong, making love to a demon could destroy him.

Yup. Tremendous knob. That’s what Crowley is.

Either way, what the fuck is he doing!?

He reaches for the gear shift but his hand moves away. He tries it again, but it happens again, like the damned thing’s repelling him.

That’s the power of guilt for you.

Or he’s right - sentient car.

But he can’t do this, not to Aziraphale. He deserves to know what’s up, and not in a week, not at a time more convenient for Crowley.

He needs to know _now_, if he’s willing to listen.

Crowley turns off the engine. He climbs back out of his car, not bothering with the buttons of his shirt. He leaves the ends hanging. He no longer cares. If he’s going to come clean, he can’t let it matter any longer.

He walks up to Aziraphale’s door. In the time he’s been gone, Aziraphale has turned the lights off, probably to give the appearance that he’s gone to bed. But Crowley can feel him beyond the door, drinking in the dark.

_Knock-knock-knock._

“Aziraphale!”

He waits, but he’s met with silence. He feels a long, drawn-out sigh from inside that swirls inside his ribcage, lassos his bones, and pulls tight.

_Knock-knock-knock._

“Aziraphale!”

_Go away, Crowley._

It’s not spoken, but he hears it all the same.

It doesn’t hit his ears.

It hits his heart.

_Knock-knock-knock._

“Aziraphale! Please! I’m so sorry! Let me in! I need to talk to you!”

Another sigh, but this time it’s accompanied by the padding of feet coming towards him. The locks on the door unlatch and the doorknob clicks. Aziraphale appears, completely put back together – shirt buttoned, hair combed, tie straight and in place.

His face bereft of that beautiful aroused flush he’d worn not minutes before.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale clears his throat, speaking with all the enthusiasm of greeting an Amway solicitor. “What’s wrong? I thought you needed some time to think.”

“No, I don’t need time. I need _you_,” he says, longing to touch his angel, but the crack in the door is too narrow for him to reach through.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so. But before we do anything, I need to show you something first.”

Aziraphale doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t open the door, and Crowley deflates, close to dropping on his knees and begging.

“Aziraphale, please? I love you. And I want to make this right by you. I just need you to hear me out.”

“Crowley, I’m done for the night. I …”

“Five minutes?” he pleads. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Five minutes?” Aziraphale sounds exhausted so he’ll probably hold him to it, down to the second. But if he’s willing to listen, Crowley will take it.

“Yes. Five minutes.”

Aziraphale nods. “Five minutes.” He steps to the side, opening the door wider for the demon to enter and then locking it behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

“I just took the kettle off the stove. Would you like a cup of tea?” Aziraphale walks past Crowley, heading to the table that held their bottle of Jim Bean and two shot glasses earlier. But those have been cleared away, and now the table is perfectly appointed with cream-colored crocheted doilies, a porcelain tea pot and matching cups, a bowl of sugar, honey, cream, and a plate of biscuits.

_Two_ cups, Crowley notes.

It touches Crowley that Aziraphale set a place for him though it seemed, at first, he wasn’t going to let him in.

“That would be lovely. Thank you,” Crowley says, accepting this olive branch since Aziraphale was in no way obligated to open his door.

Aziraphale motions to a chair and Crowley sits. He watches Aziraphale serve the tea, pouring Crowley’s and adding cream and sugar on autopilot. Aziraphale has served Crowley tea dozens of times. Crowley has taken the fact that Aziraphale knows how he drinks it for granted till now. Crowley waits till Aziraphale has his own cup prepared, sitting heavily into the chair opposite and stirring in a questionable amount of honey, before he speaks.

“I am so sorry, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, staring sadly into his cup. “Crowley, my dear, you don’t have a thing to be sorry for. Perhaps you were right all along. This _is_ a mistake.”

“No! No, it isn’t a mistake!” Crowley reaches across the table for Aziraphale’s hand, but it falls into the angel’s lap before he can touch it. “I feel awful! I feel _so_ awful! I don’t want you to think this has anything to do with me not wanting to be with you because it doesn’t! And you did nothing wrong! It’s not you at all!”

“So what you’re saying is it’s not _me_, it’s _you_?” Aziraphale raises his cup to his lips. “How original.”

“I know what you’re implying. But I’m not trying to blow you off.”

“Then what _are_ you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to win you back. I can’t lose you, Aziraphale! Not after I finally have you!”

A reserved smile dances across Aziraphale’s lips as he silently accepts those words as Crowley’s official apology. “You didn’t lose me. You just … bruised my ego a little. That’s all. I’ll get over it.”

“I don’t want you to get over it! I want you to hold me accountable! I …” Crowley takes a deep breath, trying to get the words coming out of his mouth to match up with the ones swirling around his head. But they’re steadily swirling faster, preparing to flush down the drain of his brain into his mouth. What will come out at that point is anyone’s guess. There’s simply too much to explain. Combine that with his complicated feelings and trying not to hurt Aziraphale’s, and he can already foresee disaster.

Crowley has never been the most tactful of demons.

So he decides instead to take a leap of faith, continue on where they left off, and _show_ Aziraphale.

He’ll explain afterwards.

Crowley pulls aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the name Aziraphale already saw. The angel rolls his eyes. He’d wanted to forget about this drama for tonight. But he puts down his cup and slides closer, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Heather Manson-Pride,” the angel reads. “And who is that, might I ask? Old girlfriend, perhaps? Is she a demon, too?”

Crowley’s eyes pop and he bites his lower lip hard. _Jealous_! His angel is jealous! Oh, dear Lord in Heaven above, why did this have to come out _now, _when he can’t do a thing about it? What he wouldn’t give for the opportunity to rib his angel over this, preferably while cozily submerged in another bottle of Jim Bean, but this definitely isn’t the time.

Five minutes.

That’s all he was given.

And he’s already wasted three.

“No. Just Heather Manson. Pride isn’t part of her name. It’s the sin she committed that got her damned.” Crowley lets those words hit. He watches Aziraphale, reaching for his cup, stop with his fingers centimeters from the handle. “The sin _I_ exploited that got her damned.”

Aziraphale’s hands return to his lap, discomfort straightening his back; his eyes, glossed over with emotion, locked on that name.

“Are there others?” he asks.

“You might say that.” Crowley pushes his shirt off his shoulders and lets it billow to the floor. Aziraphale can’t help staring. All over Crowley’s chest are names.

_Hundreds_ of names.

Names written in languages ancient, languages Aziraphale can’t read, languages he doesn’t recognize.

“There’re so many of them!”

“That’s not all.” Crowley stands up and turns around, reaching for the button fly to his jeans. As he pulls the buttons open, Aziraphale sees more names scrawled over Crowley’s back. Only this time does he realize that they’re each written in a different hand – more than likely the individual signatures of the people whose names they are.

Signatures used to secure the contracts for the deals Crowley made with them.

Crowley pushes his jeans down his legs to his ankles. The names continue on in their various scripts, traveling beneath the denim to spots Aziraphale can’t see.

“But … _why_? Why are they on your skin?”

“It’s hell’s way of keeping track. Keeping score, more like, which is why most demons show theirs off.”

Aziraphale reaches out a trembling hand to touch, but he can’t. Each of these names, representing a real person who lives or has lived on this planet, is steeped in agony, in despair. He doesn’t have to touch them to feel it.

They radiate.

“Can’t you miracle them away?”

“It doesn’t work. I’ve tried. I can glamour them for short periods of time, but it doesn’t last long.” Crowley catches the hopeful glimmer in his angel’s eyes dim and grins slightly. “It wouldn’t last long enough for _that_, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not for what I have planned.”

Aziraphale gazes off to the side, hiding his glowing cheeks in the low, golden light. Crowley sees hints of a smile fighting to bloom, but in a blink, Aziraphale returns to the issue at hand.

“Why didn’t I see them in Hell? When I was lying in that tub of Holy Water? I could see my reflection … uh, _your_ reflection … in the glass. There were no names then.”

“Because they’re attached to _me_. Not my body but my spirit. Since it was you inside my body, they didn’t appear.”

“And the other demons didn’t suspect because …?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, angel, but I try not to look like other demons when I can help it. I keep the names glamoured when I’m down below. That way no one sees them.”

“Why do you do that? Wouldn’t it help your reputation if everyone could see?”

“Mostly because it drives Hastur bonkers,” Crowley admits with a laugh. “He feels wearing Earthly disguises in Hell is unnecessary. And disrespectful. He _wants_ to see them, wants proof of what I’ve done up here. It’s a power play. And I don’t play well with others.”

“May I look a little closer?”

“Oh. Yeah. Go ahead. Be my guest.” Crowley turns around, waddling so as not to trip over his trousers, and sits back down in his chair. Aziraphale grabs his glasses and slides them on. Peering closely at Crowley’s skin, he begins to read the names and sins out loud.

“Thomas Decourt – sloth. Hazel Porter – envy. Kevin Smelt – lust.” Aziraphale peeks up at Crowley, eyebrow raised, but Crowley isn’t looking at him - eyes closed, patiently waiting in the darkness behind his eyelids for Aziraphale to finish. “Martin Marlin … well, if that isn’t an unfortunate name … gluttony. Katrina Meltzer – pride. Corbin Brenn – wrath. Shawn Meyers – wrath.” There are so many names, he decides to stick to the sins instead. “Pride, greed, gluttony, lust, envy, wrath, lust, lust, lust, lust, lust …” Aziraphale swallows so hard, he nearly chokes. “Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“There’s an awful lot of _lust_ listed here.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. And I can’t help but wonder … does that mean …? Did you … you know … with all these people?”

“No. Not at all. Not with anyone.”

“But you made them want you.”

“Yes.” Crowley pauses, triple thinking every word before it comes out his mouth. “And some of them … I made believe we had. It helped. A necessary evil, one might say.”

“All evils are necessary when you’re a demon, I imagine.”

Without looking, Crowley feels Aziraphale shrink away, sliding back to his seat without a sound.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“You and I never really talk shop. Not the specifics, anyway. Besides, I didn’t know how.”

“You’ve had 6000 years to figure it out.”

“To be honest … I forgot.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue in disgust. “_Crowley_!”

“It’s true! I know it’s difficult to believe, but it’s true! I don’t look at them, Aziraphale! I don’t look at _me_ because of them! In each one I can see the person it belonged to, clear as day. What I did to push them over. A lot of them deserved it, angel! Don’t get me wrong. A lot of them did. But some …” His hand comes up, finding Heather’s name and covering it. “Some of them could have been redeemed if it had been in my nature to help them. If I’d been you instead of me.”

“So these names show up on your body after you’ve convinced them to commit their deadly sin?”

“Yes.”

“And if you and I make love, and my name ends up on your body …”

“It means you’re damned, angel. Nothing can mend that.”

“Not even divine intervention?”

“Don’t know.” Crowley shrugs. “The divine have never intervened on anyone’s behalf before. But I don’t see you getting damned. I really don’t.”

“_Really_?” Aziraphale huffs. “When did _you_ suddenly become the optimistic one, hmm?”

“Aziraphale” – Crowley smirks – “you may not have noticed, but you skirt the rules, some pretty _serious_ ones, all the time and you haven’t been damned yet.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley, aghast. “I do _not_!”

“Yes, you do! What about our _arrangement_? That was a huge skirting of the rules right there!”

“I like to think of it as a _necessary evil_,” Aziraphale says, mimicking Crowley’s earlier tone. “Regardless, I figure that slate is more or less clear. Don’t you?”

“No matter how you want to look at it, angel, we exploited a loophole, but that didn’t necessarily make it right!”

“It’s a grey area.”

“But angels aren’t supposed to have _grey areas_, are they?”

Aziraphale gasps, thoroughly betrayed. “Are you calling me a _bad angel_!?”

“Not at all! In fact, you are, hands down, the _best_ angel I’ve ever met! What I’m saying is those grey areas you play around in? They don’t just exist for _you_! That ass sack you work for and his lackeys straddle grey areas all the time, and nothing has ever happened to them!” Crowley slides forward and kneels on the floor, resting his hands on Aziraphale’s knees as he continues. “Listen … do you want me?”

Aziraphale jerks back, but not away from Crowley’s touch. “_Crowley_! I really don’t think now’s the time …!”

“It’s just a question, angel. I’m trying to prove a point.” Crowley looks up at his angel earnestly through dark lashes. “Do you want me?”

Aziraphale looks positively done in by that question, but he answers it truthfully nonetheless. “Y-yes.”

“Do you want me … _physically_?”

Nope. Aziraphale was wrong. _That’s_ the question with the power to discorporate him. “Y-yes.”

“Have you thought about it? About us together? What that would be like?”

Aziraphale crosses his arms protectively over his chest and hugs tight. “Maybe once. Could be twice.”

Crowley grins. “Of course you have. I _know_ you have.”

Aziraphale sticks his nose defiantly in the air. “What makes _you_ so confident?”

Crowley leans in, the answer to this one question, though cheeky, too tempting to resist. “You talk in your sleep.”

Aziraphale holds his breath. He’d better do since it’s the last breath he’ll ever take in his entire existence.

“Yes, all right. But thinking and doing are two very different things.”

“But doesn’t thinking about having sex fall under the umbrella of impure thoughts? And don’t impure thoughts keep you out of heaven?”

“That’s not how it works! Impure thoughts won’t condemn a true believer!”

Crowley smiles triumphantly. “Exactly! And you are, without a doubt, a true believer, even after everything you’ve been through. Gabriel conspired with agents of Hell to start a _war_! Doesn’t that fall into the category of Wrath, even if only by a smidgen? He also tiptoed into Pride, didn’t he, with that preening he did over how Heaven would win? And yet, he still has his job, his title, his corner office, _and_ his Divinity.”

“I … I don’t think you can compare the two.”

“Why? A sin is a sin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but … but Gabriel is an _Archangel_! And I’m … well, I’m a Principality. That’s like comparing apples and oranges. Huge difference,” Aziraphale counters, but he doesn’t sound much like he believes it.

“How? Apples and oranges are both fruit. Just like you and that festering codswallop are both angels.” Crowley stops, chews on the inside of his cheek as something occurs to him. “But, on second thought, you know what _is_ frowned upon that might be difficult to work around?”

“What?”

“Sex before marriage.”

Aziraphale sighs, in relief and disappointment. “So you’re admitting that attempting it was a mistake.”

“No, I’m not admitting _that_. I’m saying we should perhaps go about it a different way. Do something to ensure that no matter what, you can’t be punished for us choosing to be together. For exercising your God given _free will_.”

Aziraphale’s eyelids narrow. “What are you proposing?”

“I am.”

Aziraphale’s face goes blank, then it scrunches. “No. Not _What? Are you proposing?_ I’m asking you …” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration “… what are you _saying!_?”

“I was thinking that maybe the way around that is for us to get married.”

And in that moment, even with the light traffic outside, a sparse few voices calling to one another from across the street, the rain starting, the night birds singing, and all other evidence to the contrary, the world, for Aziraphale, stops spinning.

“Married?” he echoes.

“Yes, married!” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arms, a look of genuine excitement on his face. “We’ll do it up proper! A courtship, a wedding, in a church even … for as long as I can stand it. We’ll send out invites, have a reception catered by any restaurant you’d like. Just say the word, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. He’s stunned. It’s too much for him to unpack. A _wedding_? Aziraphale hadn’t ever dreamt of having a wedding. He never thought it could be in the cards for him. But now that Crowley has brought it up, he’s thinking about it. _Really_ thinking about it.

They don’t have many in the way of friends, but they do have a handful. Anathema and Newt for a start. Then there’s Adam and his friends. They could have the wedding in Tadfield so there’d be no problems with them attending. It would be lovely in the spring - an outdoor wedding so Crowley wouldn’t be forced to play hot potato on consecrated ground. They could use his plants to decorate! Wouldn’t it be nice for the poor things to get a day out of doors? And the cake! Heaven’s above! He can see it now - a five-tiered angel food cake with raspberry filling and white chocolate icing, with a devil’s food cake topper. It comes together rather quickly, the image Aziraphale has started constructing in his head _ethereal_, to say the least.

Though one detail – the one that launched this thought experiment – stands out like a sore thumb.

“You want the two of us to get married just so we can consummate without repercussions?”

“No,” Crowley whimpers, hurt that his angel would assume the worst. “I want to marry you because I _love_ you, and I want to keep you safe.”

“But wouldn’t my falling and becoming a demon make things easier for _you_?”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek with his hand, running his thumb over his soft skin. “It would _destroy_ you. You don’t have what it takes to be a demon. You’re too kind, too pure. You see the good in everything, and no matter how hard you landed, I don’t see that ever leaving you. It would tear you apart every day. I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you.”

“Might I remind you that _you’re_ the one who called me a _bastard_?”

“But I meant it as a compliment.”

“And if we got married and I decided I shouldn’t have sex? For the sake of keeping me _safe_?”

“Then I’ll still have married my best friend in the universe, and I’ll never regret it. Not a single solitary day.”

Aziraphale relaxes the arms wrapped around his torso and puts a hand over Crowley’s against his cheek. The other Crowley takes, brings it to his lips and kisses it knuckle by knuckle. Aziraphale had thought Crowley’s explanation might take a weight off his shoulders, relieve the anxiety he’d had that he’d frightened Crowley off with his inexperience, with his anxiety …

… with his overall _him_-ness.

He feels burdened now more than before with the enormity of Crowley’s suffering. But if he could lighten the yoke Crowley has been carrying by exchanging it for his own, then he’ll accept it.

It’ll be worth it.

“I’ll … I’ll have to think about it,” he says.

Crowley sighs. “Okay. I understand,” he says, nodding for comfort, with no guarantee he hasn’t lost some part of the relationship they’d had before – a relationship he’s relied on for 6000 years. “But now that everything’s out in the open, may I ask for a favor?”

“Anything. Well, _almost_ anything.”

That gives Crowley a chuckle … and hope. Maybe he hasn’t lost anything after all. “Would it be all right with you if I stayed the night? I’ll … I’ll sleep on the sofa, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Just please. I don’t want to be away from you right now.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale smiles softly. “And don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to have you sleeping on the sofa.”

“The floor then, I take it?” Crowley teases, rising to his feet when Aziraphale does, not wanting to be too far from him.

“More like the cupboard under the stairs. Oh, and you can sleep with your shirt off if you’d like. I know you do when you’re home alone.” Aziraphale snaps at the teacups, reheating the cold tea.

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s left hand and holds it in both of his over the bare skin of his heart. “Would you like it if I did?”

“I would,” Aziraphale admits, clenching his teeth lightly to keep his voice from shaking. “Unless there’s something else you haven’t told me? Do tentacles shoot out your back while you sleep?”

“I think you’d know by now if they did.”

“Well,” Aziraphale hands Crowley his cup of tea. “Here’s hoping.”

***

It’s close to three in the morning by the time Aziraphale is certain Crowley is asleep. As with eating, angels and demons don’t _need_ to sleep, but they do enjoy it from time to time. The stress of the evening must have taken its toll on Crowley. It took him a while to fall asleep, but once he did, he fell asleep _hard_.

He’s even snoring.

Aziraphale moves slowly, one eye on Crowley as he grabs a sheaf of papers from his bedside table. He has a plan. Admittedly, it’s not one of his best, and as with his theories on angels and physical intimacy, he has no idea whether or not it will work, but he has to try.

And as to why he’s not discussing it with Crowley?

Plausible deniability, in case someone in Hell gets wind of what Aziraphale’s planning.

Or if this backfires disastrously.

He puts a hand on Crowley’s arm. His touch, though light, causes Crowley to mumble and toss in his sleep. He murmurs the word _angel_, then _don’t_, but settles back into a comfortable rhythm of cleansing breaths and drifts back to his dreaming. Aziraphale holds his breath, waiting for the all clear, then presses his other hand flat to the empty top page. It’s a simple miracle and not a major one, so it should fly under the radar of anyone who wants to check up on him upstairs. But should anyone delve deeper, it comes with a rock solid alibi.

Aziraphale _hopes_, considering the way he chooses to play it.

He thinks on that more, mentally practicing every excuse he’d give in every conceivable situation, as he watches the names on Crowley’s body flow through his hand and fill up the pages.


End file.
